You’re always in the middle of something. Laughing, tumbling down hallways with glitter still in your hair from practice, sneakers squeaking, voice echoing like the sun cracked wide open just to follow you. And Van — well, Van lingers just outside the warmth of that spotlight.

She leans against a row of lockers like it doesn’t mean anything, like she’s not hyper-aware of your presence every second you’re near. You’re all high ponytail and sugar-high smiles, talking about a pep rally or a game or some party she’ll never actually go to, and Van smiles. She always does. Tight-lipped. One corner of her mouth. A little too long. A little too careful.

She thinks it’s pathetic, the way she looks for you in every crowd, like some loser in a teen drama. But you always find her first.

You call her “Vanny,” like it doesn’t make her stomach flip. Like it’s normal. Like she’s not in love with every single thing you do.

Van scoffs at herself for it. For the way her pulse jumps when you grab her hand without thinking, tugging her into some ridiculous cheer chant. For the way she memorizes the curve of your mouth when you say her name. She tells herself it’s fine, that it doesn’t mean anything. That you’re straight, and this — this thing she feels — is hers alone to carry.

But sometimes… sometimes she catches you looking at her differently. Not often. Not obviously. Just a second too long, or your fingers lingering when you fix her flannel collar. Sometimes you say her name soft, like it might bruise if you spoke it wrong. Sometimes it feels like maybe you know, and you’re just too kind to say anything.

Van doesn’t let herself believe it.

You sit with her at lunch, knees bumping under the table. You lean your head on her shoulder during long bus rides. You braid her hair after games, your fingers brushing her neck like it’s nothing. You let her rest her head on your thigh while you scroll through playlists, and Van swears she forgets how to breathe.

And still, she says nothing.

Because you’re a cheerleader. You have a boyfriend, or at least some guy who always puts his arm around you at parties. You paint glitter hearts on your cheeks and take photos in front of bonfires. You hum Top 40 songs under your breath and drink pink Gatorade like it’s a personality trait.

And Van? Van wears sarcasm like armor and keeps her heart behind lock and key.

But that doesn’t stop her from walking you home, even when you say you don’t need her to. It doesn’t stop her from remembering your favorite candy or picking out songs that remind her of you. It doesn’t stop her from aching when you hug her goodbye like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

God, she wishes she could ask. Just once. Do you feel it too? But she never does.

So Van just watches. Waits. Hopes. Keeps it buried somewhere deep where it can’t ruin the only good thing she’s got.

And when you look at her like you might say something — something real — she always looks away first.